


“i’m sorry for your loss.”

by clickingkeyboards



Series: one hundred ways to say 'i love you' [10]
Category: Murder Most Unladylike Series - Robin Stevens
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Grief, Loss, M/M, Phone Calls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-29 01:07:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21401641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clickingkeyboards/pseuds/clickingkeyboards
Summary: Alexander receives some astonishing news about his beloved grandmother over the phone, and George has to break gentlemanly conduct to comfort his best friend and lover.Canon EraWritten for the tenth prompt in the '100 ways to say "I love you"' prompt list by p0ck3tf0x on Tumblr.
Relationships: Alexander Arcady/George Mukherjee
Series: one hundred ways to say 'i love you' [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1533164
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	“i’m sorry for your loss.”

My reaction takes almost a minute to calibrate in my mind.

When it does, the screaming static in my ears fades out and I can hear my mother. She’s saying, “Alexander? Alexander? Alexander?”

“I’m here.”

“Alexander? Are you alright? Is there anything you want to say?”

The grief is suppressed by  _ fury _ . “How dare you not tell me she was dying?!” I scream down the line, my knuckles white as I grip onto my grey school trousers so hard it hurts. “How  _ dare  _ you? How  _ dare  _ you let me live thinking that she was alright? How— how—” Tears begin to catch in my throat and my stomach is struck with a jarring pain as I gulp them back down again. “ _ How dare you? _ ”

From outside the room, I hear a commotion. George is begging, pleading with our headmaster. “Let me go in, sir. I beg of you. I know it isn’t gentleman-like conduct but these circumstances are especially delicate. I’ll be as good as a Weston student should, though I won’t swear to your god on it.”

The conversation turns muffled again and I tune back into the phone call. My father’s voice rings in my ears. “You have to understand, Alexander, it was difficult to tell you. We didn’t want to worry you in case she got better and all the panic was for nothing.”

The door opens and shuts, though I don’t turn to face it. I don’t notice it. 

“AND NOW SHE’S DEAD!” I bellow down the phone, so loud that the phone feeds back a whining noise and the chatter signifies that my father dropped the phone. I don’t think I’ve ever shouted so loud before: my entire body is instantly marred with aches and sharp pains from the effort, and my chest heaves as my hands shake with exhaustion.

“Alex, love, breathe.”

George is crouching in front me, one hand soothingly rubbing up and down my thigh, the other prying with absurd gentleness at the hand gripping my trousers.

When I see him, something snaps in my chest and I choke, gasp, and sob. The phone falls from my hand and I’m in harsh, gulping tears, unable to stop myself gasping and wheezing and choking.

As if rehearsed, George darts for the phone. He picks it up and, playing his free hand up and down the wire, he says, “Hello? Yes, hello. It’s George Mukherjee, I’m Alexander’s best friend. No… I don’t think speaking to him is within your best interests right now. Look… yes, he will be alright. Your son is a resilient person if nothing else. Yes… I swear, I’ll return the call the first moment I can. Thank you. No… no, really, it is no issue. Goodbye— yes. Yes. Thank you, again. Goodbye.”

He sets the phone down gently and whirls to face me. “Oh, Alex— love. I don’t…”

Despite the fact that I cannot see him, I can see the panic that comes with his worries over emotional situations. “I…  _ George _ .”

“Oh… oh,  _ Alex _ .”

With strong hands, he wraps his arms under my own and hauls me to my feet, pulling me against his chest. “Here… no, Alex, it’s alright. Cry if you want. For goodness sake, it’s a school blazer. Do you think I care?” One hand rubs circles on my back while the other is secure around my middle. I feel my body give against him, losing all my ability to support myself. Despite this, George barely flinches.

I cannot  _ believe  _ it. Gone. It doesn’t seem right. Real. Simply because it was not supposed to  _ happen  _ like this. I was supposed to be at her bedside as she peacefully slipped away when I was in my mid-twenties. She was not supposed to seize up in a hospital bed after suffering for weeks while I carry on across the Atlantic ocean. 

George once said that my grandmother could beat away death with her walking stick and strangle it with her pearl necklace. That’s _ true _ .  _ That _ is what my grandmother is like. My grandmother does not die.

“Oh, love,” George murmurs into my ear again, and he moves to cradling the back of my head. “Alex…  **I’m sorry for your loss** . Golly, of course I am. It’s unfair for you to suffer like this, to be kept in the dark like you were.”

Eventually, I run out of tears. “George,” I whisper.

“Yes, love?”

“I have to go to America. To mourn.” I feel sick. I  _ like _ Weston. I like England, I like my friends, I like the girls, I like the culture, and the rain, and the detectives, and mysteries, and murders, and the accents and the…

I feel him nod. “Yes, what of it?”

“Come with me.”

To my surprise, he replies, “All right.”


End file.
